


A Trashed Room and a Wedding

by rhysands_highlady



Series: The Lucky Ones Series [3]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, F/M, just pure angst tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 17:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16897179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysands_highlady/pseuds/rhysands_highlady
Summary: Based 2 years after Part 11 of TLO. Nesta and Cassian are getting married on the roof of their New York City apartment building. Most of their family has to fly across country to get there, but they make it work. All except Rhysand, apparently.





	A Trashed Room and a Wedding

Feyre didn’t know why she was nervous. It wasn’t even her wedding. 

Granted, she _was_ a bridesmaid and she _did_ have to walk down the aisle. Luckily, she got to do so with Lucien and not some other friend of Cassian or Nesta’s.

Not that there were very many. Friends, that is. It was a small wedding, only people that were close to the two of them. In fact, Feyre wasn’t sure if there were any more than 15 people attending. 

Cassian’s (adopted) parents had come, along with his little sister. Feyre had yet to meet them, though she surely would. She tried not to think about the fact that they were also Rhysand’s parents. She generally tried to shut Rhys out of her brain completely. To shut out the memories of two years ago.

Feyre frowned at her reflection in the mirror. She glanced at Elain tending to Nesta behind her, but returned her gaze to herself. Her deep red dress was on the conservative side, as Nesta had wanted. Well, what Nesta had chosen after Elain had pestered her into it. She’d chosen a charcoal gray at first, but Cassian had convinced her to choose otherwise.

Nesta had confessed to Feyre that she actually hadn’t wanted to do the whole bridesmaids thing to begin with, especially since she was void of friends who fit that role. But, of course, she had bent at Elain’s request. 

Nesta did actually have friends, just a few, that were attending the small ceremony, she just thought it unnecessary to have all of them be a part of the wedding. Understandable, considering it would leave little to no people merely seated in the audience. At least for Nesta, that is. 

She hadn’t invited their father and Feyre couldn’t blame her. Elain had tried to convince her to extend an invitation to him, but Nesta had stood firm in her decision. Not that their father would even have the funds to get out here. He had probably gambled it all away, just like Tamlin had been doing. 

She shut out that thought.

Feyre was honestly surprised her father wasn’t dead yet. The only reason she even knew that he wasn’t was that Elain checked up on him once a week. Tried to get him to do something with his miserable existence. Unsurprisingly, it never worked. 

“Feyre, come on!” Elain’s excited words snapped Feyre out of her miserable mind. “Alis is going to take our picture!” Alis was the wedding planner, and also Nesta’s coworker and friend. Feyre sighed and stood from the vanity stool, plastering a smile onto her face. 

Feyre’s smile as Alis took a picture of her and her sister’s wasn’t entirely fake. She was happy for her sister. Infinitely so. She just wasn’t excited for the reception where she’d have to converse with the groom’s family. It wasn’t like she could avoid them. She sighed again and suddenly she was being ushered out of the door and into Lucien’s arms, Alis pushing passed them to dash up the stairs and take her seat on the roof.

Cauldron, he was handsome. With his hair tied back at the base of his neck and the bowtie that matched her dress and somehow didn’t clash with his bright red hair. His tux fit him perfectly, hugging his sculpted arm which he now extended to her. Elain handed Feyre a bouquet of red peonies as Feyre took Lucien’s arm with a small smile.

“Are you alright?” Lucien asked softly as they began to walk towards the staircase that would take them to the roof.

“Of course,” Feyre said with a smile. Lucien saw right through it and frowned, but seemingly dropped the topic. He glanced back to Elain and Azriel a few feet behind them and looked back at Feyre. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “It’s not them, though Nesta and I agree they would not be good together.” They’d reached the stairs, and both of them were silent as they climbed up to the roof. 

Only when they reached the top did Lucien speak, “Then what is it?” Feyre didn’t reply because they were now walking down the aisle. Cassian was standing at the end, his smile was tame, but Feyre could tell he was insanely excited. She wanted to laugh at how he was bouncing nervously and how he kept running a hand through his hair.

That laughter in her died when she spotted Rhys--no, Rhys’ father--along with his sister and mother sat next to Mor and facing them. Lucien must have seen her fallen face and followed her gaze because he squeezed her arm gently. Feyre blinked a few times and averted her eyes, her smile returning albeit even less enthusiastic than before.

But then they’d reached Cassian and Suriel, the priest, and she had to let go of Lucien’s supportive grasp. She stepped to the side, gripping her bouquet in both hands, fixing her eyes on Elain and Azriel who now walked down the aisle. Feyre was sure Elain looked 10x happier to be there than she did.

Elain and Azriel separated, Az going to stand next to Lucien and Elain coming to stand next to Feyre. Her excitement was contagious and seeped into Feyre whose shoulders loosened and smile grew. The guests stood and then Nesta appeared, and Feyre glanced to Cassian to gauge his reaction.

He looked like he’d been shot. In a good way. Except, that was sadness that flickered in his eyes, if only for a moment. Feyre thought she was the only one that caught it, but she saw Mor frown as she looked on at Nesta. She quickly masked it with her stunning smile, but Feyre knew she was upset.

Upset that Rhys hadn’t miraculously showed up and wasn’t currently walking Nesta down the aisle. He had a flair for the dramatic, they all knew that. They wouldn’t have been surprised if he had entered with Nesta. They’d all held onto some scrap of hope that he would. But he hadn’t.

\---------

Nesta didn’t know Rhysand. She’d never even met him. But he was Cassian’s brother, and that meant something. And not only that, her sister had loved him.

Feyre had never told Nesta that explicitly, but even before she had left Tamlin, all she ever talked about was Rhysand and Lucien. And then when the bastard had _left_ …

Feyre hadn’t spoken to Nesta for weeks and she hadn’t known why, not for the first few days. Nesta didn’t care for Hollywood gossip and hadn’t thought to check. Cassian had been broody, but Nesta hadn’t thought it was correlated.

It was.

When Cassian had finally told her, she’d immediately called Feyre, only to be left on voicemail. She’d been left on voicemail for three miserable weeks until Feyre answered the call. Except it hadn’t been Feyre who had answered the phone, it had been Lucien.

"Lucien, I told you to decline it," Feyre had objected, her voice sounded farther away than Lucien’s, but Nesta could tell she was still sitting next to him.

"You can’t keep ignoring her, love," Lucien had countered. They’d gone back and forth until Feyre reluctantly took the phone and spoke to Nesta. Feyre had beaten around the bush at many of Nesta’s questions, but at least they were talking.

Nesta knew those first few months were rough, to say the least, but Feyre seemed happier now. She was in a good place and Nesta was happy for her. 

Though, today wasn’t about Feyre, or Rhysand, or any of that Hollywood drama. It was about Nesta and Cassian, the pain in her ass, love of her life. Cauldron only knew what Nesta would be doing with her life if Cassian hadn’t shown up at her office, flowers in hand, a little over a month after she had returned.

It had shocked her, and she’d actually called security to take him away. Even though they had been talking all that time, she hadn’t known he was coming to New York. Hadn’t thought it was anything serious. Which, she guessed, was idiotic on her part. Of course it was serious if they had kept talking even when she’d gone home to New York.

And somehow here they were, just over two years later, getting married. It was the happiest day of Nesta’s life.

Except she couldn’t help waiting, just a few seconds, before she climbed the stairs alone. Not long enough for it to cause any alarm, but long enough for Nesta to be sure Rhysand wasn’t going to come sprinting down the hall. Cassian wanted him here, desperately.

_Just one more chance, you stupid bastard_ , she thought as she paused, biting her lip.

But then she heard the music change, and she quickly rushed up the stairs as regally as possible, reaching the top just as all of the guests had stood. She smiled brightly at Cassian whose eyes shone with happy tears. 

Nesta reached Cassian, handing her bouquet of various red flowers to Feyre. Elain had told her they meant things like love, strength, power, and passion, but Nesta wasn’t thinking about flowers as she turned to Cassian. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” His grin had turned cocky and she wanted to slap it away, but she just looked up at him, smiling softly. He took her hands and the ceremony began.

\----------

It really had been a lovely ceremony, the setting sun casting soft shadows on Nesta and Cassian’s faces. Many tears had been shed. Lovely, it had been truly lovely. They had rented out a room at their favourite restaurant for the reception and the decorations were beautiful. Feyre, Elain, Mor, Azriel and Lucien had all given wonderful toasts. 

Everything was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

But Feyre wanted to leave.

She was holding a glass of champagne in one hand, her other one was holding her stomach that ached from laughing. Yes, laughter. Because Rhys’ sister was hilarious and delightfully charming. But she looked painfully, _painfully_ similar to him.

And if she knew of Feyre, she didn’t say anything, but every once and awhile, Amaris would get a funny look in her eye and she’d glance over at Lucien where he was trading tales with Cassian and some others. Those violet eyes of hers would go somber for just a flash of a second before she turned back to Feyre with that gorgeous smile. The same smile as Rhys.

It was after she had just turned back to Feyre that Estelle, Rhysand’s mother, appeared behind her, smiling softly. They hadn’t yet spoken, but Mor had told Feyre her name.

“Hi, you must be Feyre,” Estelle said, stepping around Amaris and extending her hand. “I’m Estelle, Cassian’s adoptive mother.” Feyre smiled at her and shook her hand. “Though I’m told--”

She paused as Feyre glanced quickly over at Cassian’s table where a slightly nervous-looking Lucien and Azriel and an apologetic-looking (drunk) Cassian sat. Feyre’s gaze snapped back to Estelle as she continued, “That you knew Rhysand.” The look in her eyes told Feyre she knew more than just that.

Feyre laughed nervously, “You say knew like he’s dead.” Feyre saw the words written in both Estelle and Amaris’s eyes.

_He might as well be._

But Estelle just chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. 

“I’m sorry to spring that on you, I just--” Feyre’s eyebrows raised. “Sorry, I’ll stop talking. Anything I say will only make you feel worse.” 

“No, no, it’s fine, we’re fine,” Feyre assured her, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 

_You’re not fine. Stop lying._

The words echoed in Feyre’s head as Estelle pressed her lips together. It looked like she was going to walk away, but then she spoke again, earning a look from Amaris which Estelle brushed off.

“I’ve known Cassian and Azriel since they were kids, and I practically raised Mor.” Estelle looked across the room at their table, and over at Nesta and Mor by the buffet, and back at the table--No, at Lucien--and finally back to Feyre. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t meet a lot of new people that really knew--know him. So meeting Lucien, who I’d already heard an earful about, was a new experience. And slightly painful, if I’m being honest. And then Cassian mentioned you--”

“Stop,” Feyre breathed, holding up her empty hand. “Please, I--Sorry, I just can’t--Please, stop.” Feyre closed her eyes tightly shut as Amaris gave her mother A Look. A moment later, she felt a hand on her lower back, steadying her.

“Breathe, my love,” Lucien murmured in her ear. He turned Feyre towards what she assumed was him and cupped her face in his hands. “Look at me.” Her eyes burned as she opened them and met his eyes. “Don’t cry.” He shook his head ever so slightly. “Breathe.” She did, blinking back the stinging in her eyes.

“Thank you,” Feyre whispered, and Lucien’s face softened. She looked over his shoulder to see Amaris, Azriel, and Mor all seemingly reprimanding Estelle, who looked to be apologising. Feyre cringed. “I need to apologise to Nesta and Cassian.” She downed the rest of the champagne in her glass and walked over to Nesta first.

“Are you alright?” Nesta asked when Feyre approached her. Feyre shrugged and poured herself another glass of champagne, which Nesta took from her. Feyre opened her mouth to protest, but Nesta cut her off. “You can’t drink your sorrows away. It’s not good for you.” Feyre rolled her eyes. “Go back to your hotel.”

“No, Nesta, I can’t, I need to be here for you and Cassian.” It was Nesta’s turn to roll her eyes.

“You’ve been here quite long enough. I’m the bride and I say leave, so _leave_. Say goodbye to Cassian though, he’ll complain if you don’t.” Despite her sadness, Feyre smiled at her sister, at the way her eyes sparkled when she mentioned Cassian. Feyre engulfed Nesta in a hug.

“Congratulations, again, I love you,” Feyre said in Nesta’s ear before she released her sister and strolled over to Cassian.

“Hey, I’m sorry about--” Feyre and Cassian broke out laughing at their simultaneous words. Cassian stopped before her and she quickly closed her mouth, shutting herself up.

“I really am sorry about telling Estelle. She just brought him up, and with the champagne…”

“Cassian, it’s okay,” Feyre assured him. “I just hope my almost breakdown didn’t kill the mood or anything.” Cassian snorted and looked around the room at the guests who seemed perfectly content.

Cassian lowered his voice like he was telling her a secret: “I think the mood is doing just fine.” Feyre smiled softly back at him.

“Then I guess I’ll be off, Nesta’s practically shoved me out already.” Feyre stood from the seat she’d taken at Cassian’s side as he chuckled. She didn’t expect him to, but he stood as well and brought her into a crushing hug.

“It’s okay to not be okay, Feyre,” Cassian muttered next to her ear. She fought back the stinging in her eyes as he released her and gave her one of his lovely smiles. “I’m gonna miss you.” Feyre nodded and turned to go, but Cassian caught her arm, squeezing it gently. “It’s not your fault.” Feyre paused a moment after he’d let go of her arm, but didn’t say anything back.

Feyre told Mor and Az that she’d see them in the morning before she linked arms with Lucien and left the reception. 

\-------

Lucien was quiet until they’d reached their room at the hotel, just a block away. He watched Feyre silently enter the room, stepping out of her shoes and placing her clutch on the desk.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Lucien asked, still watching her as she entered the small bathroom. He followed after her. She was taking pins out of her hair, not looking at him or in the mirror at herself. “Do you want a shower?” His voice was gentle, wary. Feyre shook her head ever so slightly. “Okay.”

Lucien stood in the doorway of the bathroom, feeling helpless, as Feyre began washing her face, scrubbing the layers of makeup away. When she was done, she pressed her face into one of the fluffy white towels that hung nearby. She made to exit the room, but Lucien blocked her path.

“Tell me what to do,” he breathed, trying to scan her face for any sign of an emotion besides sadness. Feyre stared at a point over his shoulder. “Tell me what to do to help you.” She dragged her eyes to his.

“Just… leave me alone.” Lucien blinked at her a few times, but stepped out of her way. She walked past him and stood in front of the closet before reaching for the zipper just below her neck. Lucien resisted the urge to go and help her as she dropped her hands and put her head in them. He heard her sigh before she spoke, “Lucien?”

“Yes?” He straightened.

“Can you unzip me?” Feyre asked, twisting up her hair with one hand. Lucien approached her and placed a soft kiss on her shoulder before he unzipped her dress. She was wearing a lacy red bralette underneath, which she removed with a small sigh. “This was not how I intended tonight to go,” she mentioned, glancing over her shoulder at Lucien. She then turned back to the closet and took out the silk pajamas that were monogrammed with her initials.

Elain had given them to her the other night for Nesta’s bachelorette party. The colour was a deep red, a few shades darker than Lucien’s hair. Lucien knew Feyre would’ve preferred blue or purple, but it wasn’t her decision to make.

When Feyre had changed into the pajamas, she turned to Lucien and spoke, “Change please, I’m tired.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Lucien nodded and that was enough for her because she trudged over to the bed. She stopped at the dresser before she climbed into bed, facing away from him.

Lucien stripped quickly down to his boxers and took his hair out of its band. He shut off the bathroom light before sliding into bed next to Feyre, who didn’t react to his presence. He tentatively draped his arm over her and she tensed up.

“Feyre?” She didn’t respond. Her head was bowed and she was clutching something to her chest, her shoulders curved inwards. Lucien propped himself up on his forearm and used his other hand to stroke her arm. “My love, talk to me.” Her breathing was jagged, she was crying. “Feyre--” She inched away from him, her body curving inwards even more. “Fine, if you don’t want to talk, then listen.” She adjusted her head as if indeed trying to hear him better. “You’ve been doing so well. Don’t let Estelle break that. She didn’t mean any harm, she misses her son just as you miss him.” Lucien swallowed. “As _we_ miss him.”

Lucien fell silent for a few minutes, and when Feyre still stayed in her ball, he spoke again, softer and more gentle than before, “Please don’t slip away from me again.” Despite the tenderness with which he spoke, raw emotion lined his words. 

Lucien bit the inside of his cheek and rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut.

He always tried to contain the pain he felt. He tried to pretend that it didn’t hurt him to think of Rhys, but it did. Every time.

Feyre saw the pain there and tried to get him to talk about it. She failed every time though. He couldn’t talk about it without crying, without showing raw and utter pain. And Lucien hated showing weakness. Probably because it had been beaten out of him as a child.

He’d been told that love was weakness. That sadness was weakness. That feeling anything besides lust, anger, and greed was weakness. And that weakness made him worthless to his family.

So he couldn’t talk about it, much to Feyre’s dismay.

And Feyre, lovely, beautiful, darling Feyre, rolled over to face him, pressed her silk covered body into his back, buried her face, still wet with tears, into his shoulder. The object she’d been clutching, Rhys’ ring, dug softly into his back. Her arm slid under his, and her hand rested over his heart.

Mother above, Lucien did not deserve Feyre Archeron.

\--------  
The flight home was pleasant enough, but Morrigan had been buzzing with heavily concealed anger. 

She had been happy and sweet and her normal energetic self for the entire trip though. Still, before the wedding, it had been easier to be what everyone expected of her. She had still held onto that sliver of hope that the rest of her friends did. That Rhysand would attend the wedding.

He hadn’t even RSVP'd to the invitation, so who was to say he wasn’t coming. 

But then he didn’t.

And, Cauldron save her, the rage she had felt almost swallowed her whole. But that rage wasn’t gone. It hadn’t settled. It was still simmering in her as her, Feyre, and Lucien arrived at the townhouse.

She wasn’t living there, of course. She never had, and Azriel had moved out not long after his brothers were both over a hundred miles away. 

No one blamed Cassian for leaving. How could they? When he’d left to be with the love of his life. And when _he_ still kept in touch with them. Unlike Rhys, who no one had spoken to in years.

The thought set Mor moving. She practically leaped out of the car and stormed up to the door, which was locked, of course. She stood by the door, arms crossed, her foot tapping the ground as she waited for either Feyre or Lucien to come unlock the door.

Feyre reached her first, keys in one hand, the handle of her suitcase in the other. She gave Mor an odd look, but turned the keys in the lock with a _click_ and opened the door. Mor fought the urge to push passed her and calmly entered the house, but she was still bouncing.

“Mor, are you okay?” Feyre asked calmly as she set down her keys on the table by the door. Feyre pushed her sunglasses up so they rested on top of her head.

“Yeah, I’m.. fine, I just need to, um, get something…” Mor lied as Lucien walked in with his bag and hers.”Oh, Lucien, sorry, I could’ve gotten my own bag, sorry, I’ll just, um, go get that thing now.” Mor rushed up the stairs, hearing Lucien say something to Feyre as she did. He’d probably asked if she was okay. 

She wasn’t.

Mor stopped in front of Rhys’ room. The door was shut as it had been since Lucien had move his things across the hall. No one had been inside since then. She couldn’t blame them. 

She herself hadn’t even dared to go upstairs since then. Unless she was too drunk to function on her own at her Hollywood apartment, but she hadn’t had one of those night since she met Andi. And anyways, she didn’t much remember them.

If Andromache were here, she would be trying to stop Mor from doing what she was about to do, but Andi had gone on business somewhere up in northern California. Mor had vaguely wondered if maybe Andri would run into her cousin, but the chances of that were far to low for Mor to dwell on it.

Mor opened the door.

Her rage hit her then. Rage at him for leaving. Rage at him for not bothering to show up to his own damn brother’s wedding. Rage at him for leaving her alone here. For not being there when her life had gone to shit.

Because it had gone to shit with the rest of the Throne of Glass franchise.

It was better now, no thanks to Rhys, but it still hurt to think that her best friend had just left her to deal on her own.

Mor rushed into the room that looked like a tomb and yet still felt like him. Overwhelmingly so. And somehow his scent had been preserved and she _hated_ it.

The immaculate bed was the first thing to go. Mor ripped the duvet off the bed, scattering the many black throw pillows, before she tore the sheets off as well.

Next was the bookshelf. Rhys had taken some of his most prized copies, but the rows of books remained mostly intact. That is, until Mor began to pull the books off the shelves, tossing them haphazardly behind her. But then she merely swiped across a whole row, scattering the books around her.

And then she moved to the dresser, which she kicked before she pulled out a drawer and dumped it on the ground and dropping the drawer beside it. She rummaged through the few papers at the desk before she stormed into his closet, kicking over the desk chair as she did so.

 

One side was already empty, Lucien’s side, but the other…Mor began ripping Rhysand’s clothes off the hangers, quickly at first, but then her arm slowed. 

She hadn’t realised she was crying. No, not just crying. Her nose was running and her face was hot. 

Mor collapsed onto the ground, on the pile of Rhys’ clothes that still smelled of his cologne. Her head fell into her shaking hands as she began to sob silently, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Why, Rhys?” Mor’s voice was raw from crying. When no one answered, she raised her voice: “WHY?” She choked on another sob and lifted one of Rhys’ shirts to her face, breathing in his scent. It only made her cry harder.

She didn’t know how long she’d been in that closet, crying and asking the universe why it had to do this to them, but some time later she walked out. She placed some of the books back on the shelf and put the bedclothes in a pile on the bed, but her eyes had stung before she could do more than that.

So she walked downstairs after shutting Rhys’ door, having wiped her tears and blown her nose. But her face was still red and hot and her eyes were still puffy and were likely glassy. Her hair was disheveled, and her shirt was still wet with tears. 

Feyre called her name, worry lining her voice. Mor turned back to look at her, not even bothering to smile or say something in reply. Feyre just frowned and waved to Mor, who did not return the sentiment. She felt a twinge of guilt at the sadness she saw in Feyre’s face.

Mor grabbed her suitcase and walked out of the townhouse, deciding it would be better if she called an Uber from out here rather than inside where she’d have to endure Feyre’s unintentional pity.

Mor did not know when she would return.


End file.
